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Der kranke

Больной

In Fieberträumen quält sie mich allein –
Im Umriß scharfer Linien – die Unendlichkeit,
Und ständig hör ich Glockenklänge schrein,
Wie Stundenschläge riefen Ewigkeit.

Mir scheint, es wird so sein nach meinem Scheiden,
Daß, mit der quälerischen Hoffnung des Erweckens,
Die Augen durch des Neben Finster eilen,
Um einst bekanntes Sehen wieder zu entdecken.

Doch in der Finsternis des ersten Ozeanes
Sind Stimmen nicht, nicht grüner Gräser Strähnen;
Sind Würfel nur und Rhomben, Ecken, Kanten
Und Schreckensklänge, die kein Ende nehmen.

O Träumen, will dir länger nicht mehr wehren!
Will gehen, wie zum Feste des Versöhnens,
Auf gelben Stränden längst ergrauter Meere,
Um große, schwarze Steine abzuzählen.


Другие переводы:

  • Английский
    Алла Бураго, Бартон Раффел
    The Sick Man
  • Артур Лехман
    The Sick Man
  • Венгерский
    Иштван Бака
    Betegen
  • Литовский
    Гинтарас Патацкас
    Ligonis
  • Сербский
    Владимир Ягличич
    Болесник

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